jack of all trades... master of none?

If anyone needs something welded, I am now capable. At KEDESH I learnt how to weld with electricity. I made a Mozambican style oven, in a Mozambican welding-style. Saying this I mean welding in: flip-flops, shorts, tank-top. The only protection was the hand-held welding mask, and I used my cat-like reflexes to dodge bits of burning metal. One flew in-between my toes! Ouch.

March 22 / 10 - You know that things are sparse here in Machanga when your guard and chef are fighting over who will take home the empty mayonnaise jar. Tio George, the guard claimed it first. But Tio Machau (the chef) claims it is his tern to take it home because Tio George already took home the goat pelt from the party we had. I am not sure what the end result was, but the mayonnaise jar wasn't either of theirs to begin with. Nor did it have mayonnaise in it.

March. 27 / 10 – Ah art. Art is defiantly a therapy for me. I picked up oil paints when I was in the city and have started to decorate our dorm wall with the girls. I gave a space to each girl to do with it what she wants. It has been a growing experience for all. Learning R-E-S-P-E-C-T, not to paint outside of your designated space, on other peoples paintings, on the ground etc, learning how to use a paint brush and respect the equipment given, cleaning up after ones self, and how to encourage and compliment others on their work. Learning colour mixtures (what colours make GREEN?) is a new thing for almost all. Half a coconut shell is sued as our palate (paint holder) and a group will form eager to see the results of a new colour created. Painting has been an everyday activity for over a week; me- having to take out and set up the equipment twice a day (once for the morning group and once for the afternoon group) and monitoring everything, encouraging, suggesting then cleaning up. Not sure how many brain-cells have been destroyed from the constant exposure to the fumes of paints, lacquer thinner and turpentine, but I am very much enjoying myself.

March 29 / 10 – “Tia, I must confess… I am a smoker” Tio George Injchala admitted in Portuguese as he pulled out a hand-rolled tobacco roll from his plastic bag in his pocket. I told him I already knew, and he seemed surprised. How could I not with a smokers cough which makes even my ribs hurt from hearing the wheeze. I always know when he takes out a fresh roll, for the series of heeves and hacks begins, then will slowly diminish. We sat under a large masanica tree on his property as the wind occasionally rustled the branches sending the cherry sized, apple tasting, pit imbedded, fruit on our heads; little children (not sure if their were his kids, his sons, or neighbor kids) waited anxiously on the outskirts of adults in the chairs to make a chase for the fallen fruit. The breeze was refreshing and conversation informal. Neighbors ‘happened to stumble in that way’, I am guessing to get a better view of the muzungu, and I surprised myself with conversations that I could keep going in my few-word phrases of Ndau. As we chatted, Tio, being a night guard, was nodding off in his chair, head occasionally slipping off his hand jerking him back into consciousness. He constantly had to run back inside to roll a fresh cigarette to keep him occupied and alert.

We arrived at his house an hour from the center on our bikes. My bike, never ceasing to have a flat made the trek a little more difficult then usual, but we made it just as the sun began threatening its scorching rays. He had told the other 10 household members in advance of my visit. He, being the only member of his family to speak Portuguese. It was a good opportunity to use the Ndau that I do know. Tio and I walked around his land and area to show me the marsh, his machamba (field/garden) and local plants that can serve as food and others medicinal properties. When we got back to the house his wife had freshly killed a chicken, which was to be our lunch, and began plucking its feathers. Fresh. Tio made sure I knew that this lunch was in my honor, and they had bought the chicken months in advance, awaiting my arrival. They gave me the honored piece of charred chicken-stomach and there was nothing I could do to pass it to anyone else without insulting them > so into my stomach went the stomach. After lunch, Telemba, a 15 year old with her 11 month old took me to the marsh and I waded into the sun-hot water and tomar banho’ed (bathed). What a perfect African day. I am not sure who was more grateful; they kept thanking me for being there and I kept thanking them for hosting me.